Never Let Me Go
by the elder Jondrette
Summary: Everyone knows the story: Rose survived, Jack didn't. He gave his life for hers. But what if everything wasn't so black-and-white? What if he never did die?
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

* * *

"Wh-Where am I?" Big eyes blinked in confusion. "Who are y-you?"

The hushed sound of whispers.

"Answer me, goddamnit!"

The steward looked at his charge with concern. He wasn't a doctor, he didn't know how to handle this. "Miss, I just need you to calm down."

The woman glared at him with unmasked animosity. "Why am I not on the _Titanic_? Where is Libbie? Where is my husband?"

The steward looked at his feet. "If you tell me their names and class, Miss, I can check the lists—"

The woman flew into a fit of hysteria, sobbing and wailing at clutching at the air, and then her chest, and then the steward's lapels.

Rose pulled the blanket up over her face, trying to block out the woman's screams. But she couldn't block out the screaming she heard inside of her head whenever she closed her eyes.

Screaming. That was one thing she remembered. Screaming and then silence. A cacophony she could never forget. Rose found it easy to pretend she was alone. She told the people who asked that she was a woman from Wisconsin, who was travelling back to the States alone and therefore had nobody and nothing to lose. She could pretend she wasn't engaged, that she wasn't in love. She could even pretend, at night, when everyone either slept or screamed, that she was dreaming. That she would wake up, wake up as Rose DeWitt Bukater, and Trudy would be fluffing her pillows and serving her griddle cakes and her mother would whisk the treats away, making some remark about how Rose was having a hard enough time fitting into her old clothing anyhow and didn't need the added sugar.

But, in the morning, when the sun's cruel rays pierced through her heavy eyelids, that's all it was. Pretend. Because as much as she could pretend that Jack was not dead, he was. And he had left her alone in this cold, dark place.

* * *

The water was freezing, stabbing and sharp. He could hear the weakening sound of Rose's labored breath, and that was all he could hear, aside from the thunder in his own head. It was silent, silent but far too loud, and he knew that the silence would be his death shroud.

It was funny, at least he thought so, that he would die like this. He never expected to freeze slowly in the middle of a black ocean, clinging to the hand of the girl who had waltzed into his life and turned it upside down. But, then again, Jack never gave much thought to how he would die. But he figured this was a pretty good way to go, he'd rather die than see her porcelain cheeks fade, the cloud of icy air that escaped her lips cease to appear, her ocean eyes glass over and cloud. If she lived, he could die a happy man.

And he did. The darkness that crept into his mind, blurring and fuzzing everything, couldn't quench the vivid memories of her hand in his, of her smile mere inches from his face, of her satin kisses and feathery words.

And it was dark, incredibly dark, when he opened his eyes again. The night was gone, the board was gone, the corpses gone, and _she_ was gone, but he was still there. Suspended in a blackish-green cesspool of death and dark and silence.

Realization dawned on him as fast as the cold did, both cutting deep to the bone.

_Rose._

He kicked his feet and arched his arms, powerfully gliding to the surface. But it was so damn cold.

_Rose._

He was almost there, almost to the surface.

_Rose!_

His head broke the surface of the water.

He had done it.

He had lived.


	2. Fractured Moonlight

**Song lyrics used at the end are from "Never Let Me Go" by Florence + the Machine.**

* * *

It had been a week since the _Titanic_ sank, and the despair weighing down on Rose's heart was replaced by numbness. It had been four days since she had been dropped off by the _Carpathia_, and Rose was still unsure of what to do with herself. Of course, Iowa sounded like a nice option—inland, the only sea the fields of waving crops, the only water the occasional streams and lakes. Iowa seemed like a marvelous option. But somewhere deep in her heart, Rose knew that it wouldn't do.

The moment she had been unloaded off of the _Carpathia_, steadied by a kind-hearted passenger, Rose had been swarmed with reporters and cameras, flashing and shouting and clicking and questioning. It had shocked her at first, all the _How many people were killed, ma'am?_s and _What exactly happened that night?_s. Then there were the Americans, like her, with their worried, clouded eyes, asking if their Johnny had gotten off alive, if their Betty was on the _Carpathia_, too. She could do nothing but stare and shake, caught like a mouse in a trap, desperately trying to weave through the throngs of questions that did nothing but bring back the horror in ten-ton, repulsing waves that made Rose want to do nothing more than curl up and scream, shaking and sobbing for a man to come to her that never would.

And that was exactly what Rose did, right after she sprinted through five blocks of worried faces, and another five of perplexed ones. She threw herself down near a telephone booth, the grimy New York sidewalks staining her dress. But she didn't care, not while she shook and sobbed and screamed, and then finally grew silent, taking her only comfort in the fact that she still had her memories. She stayed there, on that street for hours, until a man squatted down and asked her if she was alright, extending a comforting hand. Rose shot up, hoping, _hoping_—until she saw that this man had small, brown eyes, and a rather large handlebar mustache.

"It's alright, I've got you," he said, but the words were empty to Rose, just like her heart, and she shook him off and ran a block more, taking cover in a small park. She curled up on a bench and draped Cal's coat over her small, shivering body, pretending to sleep while the only thing she could do was stare at an imaginary new horizon, complete with roller coasters and mountains and beer and piers.

That bench was her new home for the next three days. During the day, she would sit there, as still as she had been on Officer Lowe's lifeboat, gazing longingly at the young couples who would stroll hand in hand through the park. She would usually let her long red curls blow in the biting spring sun, unmasked and unrestrained. But whenever she saw a man with slick dark hair and a haughty gait, she yanked the blanket back over her curls, trying to shrink into the cover of the trees. It was never him, of course. Cal and her mother had probably already caught the nearest train to Philadelphia, more than willing to leave the past and memories of Rose in the salt-stained seafront of New York. To them, she was at the bottom of the sea. Rose wouldn't have had it any other way.

She found the early mornings somewhat pleasant—that hour or so when the sky was streaked with violet and lavender and periwinkle and blush pink. It reminded her of a painter's palette, like God had taken up his brush and carefully streaked paint through the sky, cuing the sun to rise. It was days like those when she found she could forget the cold and the silence and the sorrow, just for a handful of moments, and she could remember a sherbet sunset and a gentle breeze, a drunken song stretching across a pair of lips, talk of horses and spitting as the sky turned gold. But then, during those blissful minutes, Rose would spy a flash of crimson curls or a flop of blonde hair, and her mind seemed to crack into fissures like spiderwebs and then fall apart all around her.

It was on the third painted morning that Rose decided she had to do something. Jac—_he_ wouldn't be proud of her if he knew all she was doing was moping around on a park bench. He would tell her to make it count, but making it count to Rose meant nothing if he wasn't there to show her how. Nevertheless, she settled on trying, just to appease his frowning face that appeared in her mind's eye.

Taking up her coat and her blanket, and smoothing out her long, lavender dress, she set off down the street. Gentlemen and ladies of society all caught her eyes and smiled slightly, inclining their heads politely. This scared, red-eyed girl was one of them, they knew her by her clothing. They knew her by her perfect posture and her steady gait. And Rose was frightened by this. It took all of her strength to keep it together, because she hadn't really paid attention to that dress those lazy bench days. The flowing lengths of chiffon that smelled of coal and ice and him.

It took a few blocks of clenched fists before Rose came to a suitable looking place, a small coffee shop called "The Painted Lady." One whole wall was windows, letting in the dusty morning light, and all the remaining walls were plastered with paintings and sketches and photographs. With a twinge of pain, Rose realized Jack would have loved it here. She navigated her way through the tiny café, weaving through the battered tables and worn armchairs. There was a woman in the back, dressed in a long black dress similar to that which Trudy used to wear, arranging a display of teacups.

"Excuse me?" Rose's voice was hoarse from disuse. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Excuse me, my name is Rose De—_Dawson_, and I was wondering if there were any job listings open at the moment."

The woman turned around, her beady hazel eyes giving Rose a once-over. It was clear that the freckly woman was shocked to see a proper lady standing in the midst of her husband's coffee shop, and it took her a moment to respond.

"Well," her voice lilted with a light Irish accent, "it ain't every day that we get the likes of ya in a place like this, Miss."

Rose just nodded, her absent eyes roaming over the walls.

The Irishwoman rubbed her hands over her dress, suddenly self-conscious. "I'm Abbie Donnally, and my husband owns the place. He'd be the one in charge of such things as hirin', but I do know we are in need of a servin' girl to bring drinks to the customers."

Rose managed a civil smile and nodded. "That would be quite alright, thank you, Mrs. Donnally."

And within five minutes Rose DeWitt Bukater Dawson had a job.

* * *

Jack hated New York with a fiery passion. He had never been particularly fond of the city, but he had never held such disdain for it until now. First, there were the reporters, peppering him with questions about a night he so wished he never had to remember. Then, there were the families, weeping and crying that Jack wasn't Jimmy or Johnny or George. Then there were the children, the beggar children, plucking at his pockets and suspenders, begging for a scrap of change that he didn't have. And lastly, there were too many damn redheads.

She was dead. He knew it. She wasn't there in the water, sure, but she wasn't there on the _Carpathia _either. He had searched for _so long_, his breath hitching at the sight of a lavender skirt or a crimson curl, but it was never her. He had ventured up to the first class deck a few times, slinking away from Caledon Hockley or her pinched-face mother, but never seeing her rosy cheeks and emerald ocean eyes. He had even gone so far as to heckling a steward into sending a telegraph to all the ships within two miles of the sinking site, inquiring if they were carrying aboard a certain scarlet-tressed socialite. None of them were.

There had been one girl, though, sitting solemnly on the poop deck the day after the sinking. A green tartan blanket covered her hair and shielded most of her features, but Jack could see her nose. It was so much like Rose's, Rose's beautiful Roman nose, her classic profile. But deep within his heart Jack knew it wasn't her. He had come so close, so heartbreakingly close dozens of times and it was pointless to risk it again.

But there, in New York, it seemed that every fifth girl had fiery curls, and even though this one was a shade lighter or that one was an inch shorter, Jack found himself hoping. And hoping eventually meant heartbreak. So hoping was bad. Leaving was good.

That's how he ended up at the railroad tracks, waiting for a train to stop by that he could hitch. Running was something that Jack was good at. He was a free spirit, sure, but he hadn't always been. His first time out of Chippewa Falls was to escape the memory of the fire. His first time out of the country was to escape the memory of his dead parents. And now, his third time out of New York was to escape the memory of those hauntingly perfect eyes, dewy cheeks, swirling curls.

New Jersey sounded like a good option. Newark would be nice. Maybe Trenton, or Hoboken.

Anywhere but New York Harbor.

* * *

"Can I help you sir?" Rose wiped down a table as a new customer walked in through the door. She was starting to fall into the swing of things. Gone was her chiffon gown, replaced by a simple blue number she loaned from Abbie. The clothes of the forty-something year old broad of a woman didn't fit Rose quite right, and hung loosely in her chest, hips, and arms, but she seemed to fit in, at least as much as she could. Her pearly beauty seemed to make her the likes of a goddess in the humble shop, but the customers liked her. Especially the men. They always wanted Rosie—as they had begun to refer to her when she wasn't there—the somber-smiled redhead that seemed swathed in a distant kind of mystery. But that was just fine with the Donnallys. Mystery was good for business.

The woman that walked in simply wanted a cup of lemon tea, and Rose nodded and ducked behind the counter to the teakettle. Work was nice, she decided. It certainly kept her mind off of other things. Other things that she had worked so hard to stifle in the three and-a-half weeks it had been since they happened. But tomorrow would be bad. Tomorrow was May 14th. A month since…_ the incident_.

Abbie Donnally was good to Rose, and so was Mr. Donnally, but she knew they wouldn't be able to comprehend what she would undergo tomorrow. She was having a hard enough time shouldering it all already. Just last week, she saw a man with a navy shirt and beige corduroys held up by dingy suspenders saunter across the street from The Painted Lady. It wasn't him, of course, yet Rose could do nothing but stare through the sunny windows, her eyes wide and dim. When his lanky, boyish figure disappeared from view, Rose retreated to the counter, much to the frustration of the customers she was serving. Her throat ached as she stifled hot tears, and she grabbed a silver fork—the closest thing in her reach. Holding it tightly against her arm, she was ready to draw blood, before she felt a gust of cold wind and heard the wisps of a dead voice:

"_Don't do it._"

Rose was snapped back to the present as the kettle shrieked like an impatient child, and Rose quickly took it off of the stove and steeped the woman's tea. It was ready within a minute and she brought the steaming drink to the table the woman was occupying, a small one, with white chairs, right by the window. It was a favorite spot of everybody in the restaurant; in her downtime, Rose would rest her tired legs and bask in the sun, even though she never was able to completely thaw the icy chill that seemed stuck in her veins for all those weeks.

"Thank you." Rose nodded, then turned to go back to her other duties when the woman stopped her. "Excuse me, but has anyone ever told you that you look very similar to Caledon Hockley's fiancée? Oh, what's her name—you know, the one that went missing in the sinking?"

Rose froze. She looked questioningly at the woman.

The woman kept chattering, her brown eyes glistening at the chance to fill Rose in on all the gossip. "Well, you obviously know about the _Titanic_, don't you?" The blood in Rose's veins stopped at the sound of the word she hadn't spoken in a month. "There was this one young socialite, see, and she was going to marry Mr. Caledon Hockley, you know, the steel tycoon, and then when the ship sank, she and Hockley were separated, and now the newspaper is all over the story, especially since Hockley and the girl's mother are offering up a reward and all—"

"I hope they find her." Rose's voice sounded strangled in her own ears, and she couldn't get away from the woman and her damn newpaper fast enough. Her past was coming back to haunt her.

Maybe running away wasn't so easy, after all.

* * *

**~Looking up from underneath, fractured moonlight on the sea~**


	3. Reflections

The door of the train compartment screeched shut as a man pulled it closed—the sound scratching at Jack's ears unpleasantly. Pretty much everything was unpleasant, now. Rose—the girl he had almost died for, who he was too weak to protect—was no longer of this earth. He had let Fabri down—he never did make it to America to meet his massive fortune. The only time he ever saw Lady Liberty was the first day on the open sea, a hopeful mirage for a hopeful mind. Tommy Ryan was shot, Helga Dahl strangled by the sternness of her parents and the shocking frigidness of the sea.

But it was Rose—_Rose, Rose, Rose—_brilliant, stupid, spoiled, generous, kind-hearted, trapped, stubborn, frustrating, _miraculous_ Rose, that shattered every last bit of peace he could have left that water with. If it weren't for her he could have doffed his cap in memory of Tommy, gazed at the sea foam green face of Freedom in lieu of Fabrizio, said a prayer for everyone else that both lived and died, then stepped off onto solid land and a solid place to stand. He could have started up again, one foot in front of the other, ready to shake off the bad memories and smile at the good ones.

But everything was a bad memory now, so bad that after two months Hoboken couldn't offer enough shelter. Even thoughts of sunsets and gold and lavender and Renaults, all those were tainted. Jack knew there wouldn't be a happy ending. Two lovers finding themselves in the arms of each other would inexplicably be torn apart in a matter of hours. A laugh, high and rosy, carried by the sea wind, would never in fact make it to Santa Monica. There was to be no riding like a man, or spitting like a man, or screaming on a rickety rollercoaster until their stomachs were as high as their spirits.

Jack rested his head against the cool glass pane of the train window, bidding the touch to banish unwanted yet longed for memories of a horizon that would never come.

But opening his eyes, Jack's breath hitched. It couldn't—it wasn't.

"Sir, may I see that newspaper?"

The man sitting opposite him glanced up and talked around his pipe: "Sure, son, keep it."

Jack couldn't even manage a strangled thank you. There, on the front page of the _Times_, in a small featured section beneath the photograph of the vessel that had torn his life by the hinges, gazed Rose DeWitt Bukater: her fiery curls subdued by a rather large, rather familiar butterfly comb, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her skirt carefully shielding every inch of her taboo legs. But there, there in her eyes, there was that spark. That fire.

Which had long since gone out.

* * *

The day Rose got sick was the same day Jack caught a train from Hoboken to Tennessee.

It had been three months since the Cold—as Rose referred to the sinking—and spring had long succumbed to the fiery fingers of summer. Even Rose felt the thick ice filling her heart begin to thaw with the April frost. It almost seemed as if all of the fragmented pieces of her life were beginning to be swept away and formed anew. Almost.

The huge, gaping cavity in Rose's spirit was beginning to mend, never to heal, just to mend. She could feel the long fibers stretch across her wounds, binding together the jagged edges. It still hurt to breathe, and it still hurt to smile, and to walk and to talk and to listen and to see and to taste and to smell, but just a little bit less. And that was a comfort to Rose as she opened up the café early that morning.

"Hello, Mr. Havell," Rose chirped as the door rang open. She was used to all of the Painted Lady regulars now and Michael J. Havell was about as regular as they came.

"Hello, Rose." Havell doffed his hat, placing it on the hatrack before sitting down at the little white table, engulfed by sun and the good memories of all those who had sat there before him.

Rose smiled slightly as she poured his tea—the first real smile she'd worn in months. But she didn't hum, as she might've before. She didn't hum—never hummed. The only song her heart could sing was resting beneath the cruel, cruel waves, buried in the sand and serenading a free spirit to eternal sleep.

"Smiling suits you, Rose," Havell said as Rose brought him his tea. "You should do it more often."

Rose let out a small, humorless chuckle. "You have no idea how hard that can be sometimes, Mr. Havell."

"Enlighten me."

Rose ducked her head and backed away. "Anything else, sir?"

He cleared his throat and returned to the paper that rested on his knees. With a twang of disgust, Rose realized that her face still adorned the grey-beige print paper. Cal never gave up that easy.

The rest of her day was uneventful, the steady stream of sauntering customers slowing down to a trickle by the time the blood red sun began her descent into the chilly waters. Mr. Havell had left half an hour after he came, perhaps embarrassed by his failed advance at Rose. Either way, she didn't mind. He wasn't bad company, but not particularly great company either. Rose found herself longing for the company of the one she could never have.

Fate was shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Rose tucked herself into Cal's coat as her feet found their way back to her park. Curling up on the park bench that had been her address for the past three months, and would be until she could buy a flat and maintain rent, she marveled at how quickly the temperature dropped.

The sky sang the song of storms—whistling winds that ripped at Rose's hair and thin skirts, blowing trees that creaked and groaned, the sound of waves becoming frantic as they were agitated by Mother Nature herself. And storm it did.

The black, menacing clouds that had rolled in from the Atlantic emptied themselves on Rose's feeble head, managing to crack through the defenses she had built up in her mind. All she could think about was how cold it was, how cold it was, how cold it was.

And how wet she was. And how cold. And how cold and how wet and how shivering and how lost. She was there, three months ago, rushing through water that sliced through her wet dress and cut to the bone, searching for the man she was desperate to see again.

But this time, this night, whenever she called his name there was no answer. She was three months older, three months solemner, three months sadder. And he was three months deader, deader, deader.

* * *

STEEL TYCOON SEARCHES FOR FIANCEE IN THE AFTERMATH OF TRAGEDY

_Caledon Hockley, son of Philadelphia royalty Nathan Hockley, is still in search for his lost love after being delivered safely from the deadly grip of Titanic. The ship, which sank three months ago to the terror of thousands, brought 1800+ souls with her to her watery grave. Mr. Hockley, refusing to accept the fact that his beloved went down with the ship, is offering a reward to any who know of her whereabouts._

_His fiancée, Rose Dewitt Bukater (pictured above), was last seen at about one o'clock the night of the sinking. Mr. Hockley had ushered her into a lifeboat, chivalrously not claiming any space for himself, telling her that they would be together soon. Miss Bukater got into the lifeboat, but jumped back onto the ship as Lifeboat # 6 was being lowered. She couldn't stand to part with Mr. Hockley and ran to him as quickly as she could. Unfortunately, the young couple became separated as chaos—_

Jack crumpled the paper in his hands, ripping and tearing it to shreds. His face contorted into a mask of fractured feeling, his eyes scrunched closed with pain.

Oh God. God, God, God, God.

Snippets flashed before his closed eyes, bright and glaring—_lost love, sinking, lifeboat, Hockley, watery, grave, souls, Rose, lost, love, Rose, love, Rose, lost, Rose, Rose, Rose_.

There were sounds in the background—the man with the pipe probably—but Jack simply placed his forehead back on the glass, relishing the feeling of the cold against his skin and the warmth of the tears already drying on his cheeks.

Tennessee couldn't come quickly enough.

Cal had been right. He always won. One way or another.

* * *

When Rose woke up she was shivering uncontrollably. Her hair was still dripping and matted against the back of her neck, and her hands were blue. Her lungs felt shriveled and empty, and she could feel her toes or fingers. Cold puffs of breath came all too rapidly. Teeth chattered all too loudly. Head pounded all too mercilessly. Life took all too cruelly.

Rose swung her feet over the side of the bench. Steadying her not-there feet on the ground, she slowly lifted herself up. She was able to stand, to her relief, and she took a shaky step. Another. Another. Another.

Then the world collided with the pavement and Rose heard screaming.

It was July 15th, three months. Three months since Rose's world was taken from her.

* * *

_**~Reflections still look the same to me, as before I went under~**_

_**~And it's peaceful in the deep, cathedral where you cannot breathe~**_

_**~No need to pray, no need to speak~**_

* * *

**Yes, yes I know that 1500+ people died on _Titanic (_1517, to be exact), but newspapers at the time believed the numbers to be over 1800.**

**Let me know what you think!**

**And yes, it has been pretty angsty so far, but we gotta give them time to grieve, right?**

**I solemnly swear things will start happening soon.**


	4. Under All

**Just to warn you, this chapter may be a bit bizarre. But bear with me, readers :-)**

* * *

The doctor frowned in consternation as he inspected the blue-lipped girl before him. Her face held the remnants of great beauty, thrown aside by the throes of sickness. Her cheeks ashen, lips indigo, hair matted and forehead slick. She was still, deathly still most of the time, and his nurse often had to place her fingers before the girl's mouth to see if she was still breathing. And her scary stillness would sporadically be interrupted by uncontrollable bouts of shivering. The girls eyelids would flutter, her teeth chatter, her body convulse. Her lips would move, forming words that would never be spoken.

"What is her name?" The doctor demanded of the nurse.

"Nobody knows, sir. She was found on the pavement in Central Park, out cold. Right after that big storm."

The doctor nodded. Homeless, probably. Who knows what she did for money.

He cleared his throat. No matter; a patient is a patient. Even one of the less reputable breed of society. She was sick. So he would help her. "All right, then. We'll see what we can do."

* * *

The doctor stepped back. Just as he feared, her body temperature was far too low. Her breath was coming out far too rapidly and weakly. Whatever words she tried to say were slurred and mumbled.

"She has hypothermia. A bad case of it. How many days ago was she found?"

"Yesterday, sir. A gentleman brought her in, saying he saw her collapse onto the pavement. She hit her head as well, sir."

"Yes, yes, I can see _that_." The doctor waved his hand in dismissal. Hypothermia cases made him irritable. "And she hasn't woken up since yesterday?"

"No, sir."

"Well, you know what to do. Keep her warm. Make sure she gets some fluids. And come straight to me if she wakes up."

The nurse stopped him, concern plain on her features. "If, sir?"

"Yes, madam. If."

* * *

The nurse was worried. The nurse was confused. But most of all, the nurse was afraid.

The sick woman had barely moved since yesterday, when the doctor gave his diagnosis. It was her third day lying there on that cot. Her prospects weren't too bright. The doctor had checked in on the nurse and her charge a few times, only to leave the room shaking his head at the sight of his patients. He gave her one more day at the most. By his prognosis, this would be her last afternoon.

It was a pity, really. The girl was probably no older than twenty. It made the nurse want to cry. She was twenty-two, barely more than a child, already having to deal with more death and disease than she ever would have imagined. She wanted this girl to live. She wanted this sad, homeless girl to have the life she wanted.

With a sigh, the nurse returned to her novel. It was a mystery novel, something deemed improper for women. The doctor would have her head if he knew she was reading a novel—a _mystery_ novel no less—on the job. But what the doctor didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Suddenly, a scream.

A shrill, heart-wrenching, spine-tingling scream filled with fear and sorrow and loss.

It wasn't a word, but a sound. A feral, frightened, frighten_ing_, noise.

And it had come from the patient.

Tossing her novel beneath a chair, the nurse ran to the cot. Her eyes were wider than saucers. "Doctor!"

The patient writhed and shook beneath her quilts, letting out another scream. It seemed like she was trying to form words but couldn't. Her eyelids were still closed, her eyeballs moving back and forth beneath them.

"_Doctor!_"

"J-"

The woman's voice was softer now—the rustle of autumn leaves on the sidewalk.

"What is it?"

The woman thrashed her head back and forth, her eyebrows knitted together and her hands clenching the sheets. "J-J-J-J-"

"What?" The nurse put her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Doctor!" Where was he?

"J-J…" The woman took a deep breath and swallowed. "Ja-Ja-"

"Yes, what is it?"

"…Jack."

The word was slurred, mumbled, barely audible. But it was a word. The woman would live. "_Doctor!_" The nurse was almost giddy with relief. The patient hadn't opened her eyes yet, but she was speaking. Or, at least trying to.

There was hope.

The doctor burst through the door, the wood banging against the wall. "Good _God_, woman, what is all that screaming about?" His eyes widened as he saw the woman, shuddering beneath her sheets. "Has she awakened?"

The nurse shook her head.

"Well has she said anything?"

"She keeps asking for a 'Jack,' sir."

"Have you any idea who this 'Jack' is?"

The nurse shook her head again.

The doctor approached her shivering form. The frantic whispers of "Jack" had given way to quiet sobs.

* * *

When Rose opened her eyes she felt soft, cloudlike sheets beneath her. Her red curls were pooled around her shoulders, shiny and newly washed. Her pillow smelled new and like jasmine, the bed heater sending comforting heat through the mattress to her skin.

"We must find this Jack." Rose looked around in confusion. Her world seemed slow and blurred, each color bleeding into the next to form indistinct shapes. She was warm and cold at the same time, and she couldn't identify the voices she heard around her. They were concerned, she could decipher, and they were very close. In the same room. Hovering around her bed.

Rose blinked a few times, trying to clear her vision. Slowly but surely, the colors separated, and Rose could make out mahogany paneling, sumptuous rose-and-gold wallpaper. All around her were curtains, deep, scarlet curtains, held up by mahogany bed posts.

"She's awake!"

An emerald-eyed, pinched-face, red-haired woman leaned over Rose. Her mother. "She's awake!" She cried again. "Sir! Come quick! She's awake!"

A dark-haired gentleman oozed into her line of vision, a condescending sneer on that slick face. Cal. "Yes. Yes, she is. Quite right, nurse."

Rose moved her lips, trying to find her voice. Nurse? Why was Cal calling her mother nurse? "Wh-Wh-w-wh-wh-wh-"

"Yes?" Ruth's face loomed into Rose's vision. Rose lifted her hand, feebly trying to swat her mother away, but she found that her hand couldn't move.

"Wh-wh-why am I st-s-still on _T-T-T-Ti-Titanic_?"

Ruth and Cal shared a confused look.

"Where's J-Jack-k-k?"

Another confused glance.

"_Where. Is. Jack?"_

Rose was met by silence.

"Where is Jack goddamnit!"

* * *

"Madam, what is your name?" The doctor asked, staring unwaveringly at the girl. She had opened her eyes by now, and seemed quite agitated. He had no idea who Jack was, and wondered if the girl had actually been a passenger on the _Titanic_. She didn't seem wealthy, that's for sure, so a ticket would probably have been way too expensive for her. She was probably in an advanced state of deliria—a result of the sickness.

"Can you hear me, Madam? What is your name?"

* * *

Rose frowned as she tried to sit up, Cal's eyes boring into hers. "Don't be stupid, Cal. You know my name. And of course I can hear you. Now just get me out of this goddamned bed so I can leave."

* * *

The doctor frowned back at her. "I'm not Cal. I don't know who Cal is. I don't know who Jack is. I am a doctor. You were found unconscious on a sidewalk in Central Park. You've been asleep for at least three days. You're probably in a severe state of shock—"

* * *

Rose felt tears prick her eyes as Cal made up some ridiculous story. "Cal, just stop it. Where is Jack? I need to see Jack!"

She let those unshed tears fall down her cheeks as her hysteria grew.

"Where is he? Where is he Cal? Why won't you let me see him? Why won't you let me leave?" Rose buried her head in the pillow, softly sobbing. "You can't just dismiss me with a chuckle and a pat on the head."

That's when everything went black.

* * *

The doctor frowned, his forehead creased, as he removed his spectacles and tucked them into the pocket of his coat. He turned away from his hysterical patient, sighing as the nurse wrung her hands. "Well, at least she woke up. That's a start."

* * *

_**~And now I am under all~**_


	5. Breaking Over Me

**Hey everyone! I'm sorry, like I said, I have been suffering severe writer's block, but I've found muse again! Yay! Thanks to everyone for sending me help for this story, and I finally know where I am going with this! Whoo-hoo! **

**Special thanks to ASummerBreeze, for sending in the idea that this chapter is based on. **

* * *

The nurse anxiously twirled a piece of hair around her finger as she sat by the patient's bedside. She noted with relief that her charge seemed a little less hysterical. In fact, the pallid woman lying on the bed seemed completely at peace. Rosy blooms, the nurse noted, were beginning to reappear in her cheeks, and her breathing became much less frantic and much less quiet.

But she hadn't woken up since her episode hours earlier.

The nurse hadn't returned to her mystery novel, terrified to let the sick woman out of her sight. Hypothermia was a colossal problem, especially if accompanied by deliria. She sighed and there was a knock on the door. Without waiting for a response, the doctor rushed in.

"Any change?"

"No sir. But, begging your pardon, she does seem more content."

The doctor frowned, ignoring the last part of her sentence. He removed the blankets covering the sick woman briefly, inspecting her bruised and frozen body. The nurse cast her eyes downward out of modesty.

"That's strange."

The nurse stood. "What's strange?"

"Look at these bruises, will you? They're tricky to see, because they're fairly old, but they haven't healed yet. They should have disappeared a while ago, I believe. This could be a sign of deadened skin. She must have come very close to severe hypothermia before." He replaced the blankets, straightening his form.

The nurse looked up, eyebrows furrowed. "So, you're saying she might be telling the truth?"

* * *

The sun felt nice. More than nice, actually. It felt heavenly, blissful. It lit up her skin and seemed to make her glow from the inside out. Rose looked down at her body, expecting to see the too-thin, calloused, working-class girl she had become, but her figure was instead clothed in a magnificent crimson gown, beaded with blackness that seemed to wink in the light of this ethereal sun.

She extended her arms, and they were once again lily-white and smooth. She brought her hands to her cheeks, porcelain once more. What was the magic of this place? How had this happened?

"_Rose._" The word was a hush, whispered across the magical landscape of this place. Passed on by the trees, sung by the stream that cut through the center of it all. Everything was lit with the light of this strangely soft sun, and everything seemed to sparkle.

Rose smiled.

"_Rose._" There it was again, yet there was no one in this paradise but her.

"Yes?"

"_Rose_!" The word was nearly tangible, she could feel the exclamation caress her cheeks and smooth her curls. The familiarity of the voice nagged at her mind, yet she couldn't place it.

She giggled. "Yes! It's me!"

She felt a pull, a magnetic tug coming from the banks of the stream. Still giggling like a giddy schoolchild, Rose curiously let it lead her.

The stream was bright, the most crystalline shade of blue she had ever seen, yet she could still see the water-smoothed pebbles at the bottom of it, skipped over by the bubbling currents of water. The banks were grassy, speckled with pink wildflowers. She saw a far-off figure reclining on the bank a ways away, and she picked up speed, trotting toward this person.

"_Rose._"

She was almost there. Almost to the mystery-shrouded being.

"_Rose._"

She was practically sprinting now, she was so close. She could make out the glint of sun off of a mop of cornsilk hair, the lanky comfort of those long limbs, the lopsided edge of a smile.

She was running as fast as her lungs and this dress would allow, but he didn't seem to be getting any closer. The sound of the stream began to become menacing instead of gentle. Upon closer inspection, the beautiful wildflowers had thorns that bit at the hem of her dress.

She could do nothing but watch as the serene man her heart had ached for slowly turn to golden dust and begin to blow away, across the too-loud stream.

She tried to scream his name but no sound came out. She heard the oily chuckle of a steel tycoon echo around her as the dusty form of the blonde man gave a shudder and finally flew into the sickly sweet air, twinkling in the light of the too-bright sun.

* * *

The nurse nearly shrieked as the patient's eyes burst open and she popped up, fear on both their faces. The doctor gently pushed her back down onto the bed, trying to calm her as she asked question after question.

"Can you tell me your name?"

* * *

Rose blinked, confused as she saw a graying man with black eyes leaning over her. "Who are you? Where am I? I _demand_ answers!"

He pushed her back onto the bed and she could feel her heart begin to race. Who knew what his intentions were? Had he hurt her? Why was she so cold?

"Can you tell me your name?"

Rose's eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment as the walls around her seemed to constantly switch from a boring, dull grey to a sumptuous, vibrant red, then back to grey. The sheets beneath her morphed from scratchy to cloud-soft then to scratchy again. It was overwhelming. "What's going on?" She whispered.

The man above her glanced to his right, and Rose followed his gaze, her eyes resting on a petite blonde woman dressed all in white with the distinctive nurse's cap. "At least she isn't in a state of deliria again," he murmured. "Madam, the truth is you are very sick with a severe case of hypothermia. You were brought to us wet and shivering."

"Well, I would assume so," Rose said hoarsely, the details of her frozen hell coming back to her. The evil greedily sucking every inch of heat from her skin. "I was in that water for hours."

Another glance between gray man and nurse as the room continued to blur.

"Madam," the gray man said, "are you referring to the _Titanic_?"

Rose looked from one face to the next, full eyebrows knitted together. She opened her mouth a few times, trying to find the words. But her weary mind was aching, and her heaving heart hurt with each breath, and she couldn't speak. She couldn't admit aloud that she had survived the unsurvivable, and that she had lost nearly every piece of herself in the process.

The graying man spoke again. "Are you aware of the fact that it the _Titanic_ sank three months ago?"

Green eyes blinked in surprise, and Rose could feel her jaw ache in the painful prelude to tears. "B-B-But, that, that's impossible—I-I-I…that makes no sense, I…"

"I know it must be confusing, Madam. But you have just awoken, and your sense of time might be warped."

All the nurse could do was watch as Rose wept.

* * *

The patient spent her days in a state of melancholy. Her hair hung limp around her hollow face, her sunken eyes staring at nothing but filled with a strange sadness that seemed like it had been there for an eternity. The nurse couldn't do anything but tidy up and wait for a word from the red-haired woman, one encouraging word instead of the hacking coughs that were the only interruption of the heavy silence.

Glancing over, the nurse saw the woman's eyelids close and her chest heave up and down in the relaxed state of slumber. With one more sigh, she resolved to clean up the already immaculate room.

The corner of a paper, peeking out from under a chair, caught her eye. She bent down and picked it up, turning it over to read what it was. What she saw made her jaw drop. Glance from the patient to the page, and back again. Make sure she wasn't seeing things.

She wasn't.

* * *

Hours later, a maid opened a door, somewhere in a ritzy neighborhood in the skirts of a city called New York. To her surprise, this particular maid found a particular blonde nurse waiting on the doorstep, a newspaper clutched in her fingertips.

"No work to be found here."

But the blonde's hand stopped the closing door in its tracks, and the maid looked up, shocked.

"I believe I've found Rose DeWitt Bukater."


End file.
